


Far Away

by GodsHumbleClown



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Family, Homesickness, Immigration & Emigration, Ireland, Mother-Son Relationship, Past Character Death, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 16:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodsHumbleClown/pseuds/GodsHumbleClown
Summary: Spot didn't remember the boat.He didn't remember the boat, and most importantly, he didn't remember the place they'd left.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13
Collections: Canon Era Newsies One Shots





	Far Away

Spot did not remember the boat. 

He didn't remember the way it swayed, nauseating movement at all times. He didn't remember the smell of all those people, squished just a bit too close together and all going a bit too long without really washing themselves. 

Spot hated the feel of being dirty. Luckily, he didn't remember the boat ride, because everyone on that boat, despite their best efforts, was somewhat grimy and disheveled. 

He didn't remember the boat, and most importantly, he didn't remember the place they'd left.

He couldn't remember.

It was far easier to pretend. After all, it wasn't like anyone brought it up. Oh, the boys in Brooklyn would talk, share stories, memories, vague feelings of what had at one point been home to most of them. But they'd learned to leave Spot out of it, and Kelly had only really asked him once. Nearly lost a finger about it, and then never asked again. 

Spot Conlon did not want to talk about Ireland.

Brooklyn was home. Spot's family was the newsies. It did not matter how quickly his parents had died after arriving in the harbor, because Brooklyn was his home and his family and where he came from. 

Except sometimes, the city got a little too loud, and a little too green, with a little too much singing and dancing and remembering, and he couldn't pretend anymore. 

Spot dangled from his makeshift hammock above the water, no feelings, just legs, arms, and rope. It was too cloudy to see the stars, but the waves were just noisy enough to cover up the sounds of celebration from various bars and restaurants a little ways from the docks. 

Most of the boys would be finishing up the evening edition by now, and maybe on their way back to the lodging house. Old Taps would probably want to tell his stories, play some music. He always did around this time of year. 

Spot just didn't want to hear it. He couldn't hear it. Couldn't be that kind of weak around his boys. He'd break, and then what?

Spot Conlon, tossed to the dogs. 

A light breeze picked up, rocking him gently like he was on a boat. Not that Spot knew what a boat felt like, of course. He told himself the moisture on his cheeks was just sea spray. That was why he could taste salt. 

Somewhere across all that sea was a place that had once been his home. Supposedly he still had family there, but it wasn't like he could write to them. They'd probably not write back anyway. 

He lived on the docks for convenience. It was a nice place. That was all. Nothing to do with being just a few more miles closer to a home Spot would never return to. Nothing at all.

Before he knew what he was doing, Spot was climbing down from his nest and dropping to the ground. Brooklyn was big enough to wander, even tonight. 

* * *

Somehow, Spot wound up a good ways away from Brooklyn, standing outside a little tenement building made of red brick. Yes, he knew who lived here. He knew the Mouth told Kelly just about everything, and word might get back to the boys in Brooklyn, and Spot would be dethroned by morning. 

Despite this knowledge, Spot found himself standing in a little hallway, warmer than outside at least, and before he could even properly make up his mind to do it, he'd knocked on the door. 

Esther Jacobs answered, bringing with her a very warm, welcoming smell that made Spot want to curl up into it. 

"Hello," she smiled despite the obvious surprise. 

"Come in, Spot. Can I help you?" 

Spot was guided to an empty chair by the table, where the rest of the Jacobs family sat, looking confused, but not unwelcoming. 

Esther offered him a bowl of some kind of soup. It had cabbage in it. 

"What can we do for you, Spot?" David's father asked. Unlike Esther, he sounded very New York. Esther clearly came from elsewhere, her accent clinging tight to every word like a bird on a breeze. 

Spot stared at the soft boiled leaves floating like little boats in the broth. 

"Tell me about Poland?" 

He'd never been to Poland. Didn't really want to, either, but Esther was from there. She probably remembered being on a boat for what felt like years, all salt and swaying and smells. 

Things Spot would not remember, not ever, even if he were to go to Poland. 

Warm, calloused hands took hold of Spot's. He looked sideways into Esther's eyes, and she knew. He knew that she knew, and it was okay. She could know.

"Poland," she began softly, "is wonderful. So many colors, so many people." She paused, trying to find the words to describe a life an entire world away.

"I like green," Spot mumbled into his shirt collar.

"Green is a good color," Esther agreed, squeezing his hands. 

"Color of Ireland." 

Spot tried to say _yes_ , but what came out were tears, and Esther wouldn't let him turn away. She pulled him close and tight, rocking gently from side to side. 

Rocking like a boat, a boat Spot remembered, and tears like seawater on his face. 


End file.
